


Notes Regarding the End of the World, a Compilation

by RageSeptember



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Dystopia, Multi, gray asexual!Sherlock, non-linear storytelling, post-apocalypse - freeform, rebellock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2049321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageSeptember/pseuds/RageSeptember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Baker Street, after the Fall, after everything - </p><p>Striking from the shadows, Sherlock, John and their motley band of rebels struggle to fight back against the elusive forces that managed to reshape the world and now seek to control it. </p><p> </p><p>Rating will go up, and tags and warnings added as the story progresses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to wonderful betas goingbadly and Mie! <3

**_Tolouse, 20–_ **

For the first time in several months I find my thoughts straying back to London. I usually avoid thinking too much about that grand old lady of a city, equal parts queen and washerwoman; remembering what she _was_ inevitably leads to remembering what she has _become_ , and I would rather not. But tonight she returns to me all the same, unbidden, maiden and crone, memories of old sights and sounds and the smell of brine mixing with week-old frying oil. 

Maybe it’s the rain. I can’t see it for the boarded up windows, but judging by the sound of endless drops heavy against the roof I ought to be grateful to be able to stay inside. I had wanted to go with Sherlock when he went out earlier this afternoon, but apparently I was ‘still recovering from the blow to the head you took yesterday’. 

_“That was two weeks ago, Sherlock.”  
_

_“Was it? Then why have you been walking around like a disoriented turtle in a china store?_ _It’s odd, you would think the effects of having your brain bruised would be negligible when you are more or less incapable of using said brain the first place… “_

Such a sweet-talker, Sherlock. No wonder he makes friends wherever he goes. The blow I took was meant for him, naturally. We – quite accidentally – got caught up in a middle of a fight between two rogue fire-sworn. _Of course_ Sherlock couldn’t quite resist the temptation of showing off his own new skills, and _of course_ I was the one who got knocked down for it and had to be carried out of the burning inferno by my very own knight in decidedly off-white armour. 

Anyway, out he went a couple of hours ago – rudely ignoring my entirely reasonable objection to him being such an arse – and here I am, safe inside, dry, and with a newspaper and a steaming cup of hot tea in front of me on the table. I _do_ hope my dear detective is enjoying getting soaked to the skin while waiting for the representative of the SMR – Skandinaviska motstandsrorelsen, whatever that means – to show up. 

On the other side of the table Mycroft shifts in his chair, puts his laptop aside and clears his throat. I can bloody well _feel_ his eyes on me. At times like this it is hard to remember that Mycroft is just an ordinary human like me, with no enhancements or magic or whatever you want to call it to give his stare any particular power beyond that of a normal man (if a man skilled at getting his own way). 

I ignore him. I know what he is going to say, and I know I have no interest in hearing it. 

A momentary easing of the torrential onslaught on the roof before it returns stronger than ever. I don’t remember there being storms quite like this one back in London. It seemed the rain fell lighter there… 

We haven’t had word from Greg in over two weeks and we’re all of us getting pretty worried, though both Sherlock and Mycroft are keen to pretend otherwise. Sometimes their stoic masks of casual indifference can be oddly comforting, but there are times when I would give just about anything to have them show some human emotion; _any_ human emotion. 

(That isn’t fair. They’ve faced their fair share of horrors and death, and they both stood tall where almost everyone else faltered. I shouldn’t blame them for doing whatever they need to do to stay sane, stay strong. I shouldn’t blame them – but sometimes I do. Life isn’t fair.) 

Greg left for the Czech Republic on the fifth of October, sixteen days ago. He was supposed to be back by Sunday, but he wasn’t. We know he got on the train to Prague, we know he met with Monroe; after that, nothing. Not even Irene has been able to dig up anything else, and these days she’s usually our best bet at getting information from the other side. Watching her sway and slide her way through the ranks of the high and mighty, you’d be forgiven for thinking that nothing has truly changed; that the world never ended. 

“We need to entertain the possibility that his cover has been… _blown_ ,” Mycroft says, lips twitching slightly as if are they displeased to have aided in the use of such a colloquialism. “If that is the case, our location may have been compromised. We need to move – “ 

“No,” I say. I don’t even hesitate or look up from my newspaper. (I understand very little of it; French was never my best subject in school. Although I have managed to pick up a few words and phrases in the two months we’ve been here, I still can’t make more than the most cursory sense of the news items and articles. Not that I imagine it to be any great loss – media may not be _quite_ as rigidly controlled here as it is back home, but I still expect it to spew out more propaganda than information. Though perhaps that is not so very different from how it was before… ). 

“John, we must – “ Mycroft is insistent. 

I interrupt him again. “No.” I fold the paper, put it aside, and fix him with a non-confrontational, but firm stare. I’ve gotten pretty good at producing those after putting up with Sherlock’s particular brand of insanity for so long. Frown all you want, _Myc_ ; that patented Holmes brother look of long-suffering disdain lost its magic way before magic entered the world. It was never quite as impressive as you liked to think anyway. 

Rationally, I know he has a point. If Greg _has_ been taken, we can’t be sure he hasn’t broken. Of course he would rather die than betray us, but there are so many fates worse than death, and so many deaths other than his own. We _should_ leave, and not only to protect ourselves; posing as a group of Dutch refugees, we are sharing this condemned two floor rental with several homeless youngsters and three Spanish families who made it across the border before it closed. I feel guilty about potentially putting them at risk, but… 

Moving out leaves Greg with little chance of finding us again, should he return. And we have lost so many already… 

“You are being irrational and sentimental,” Mycroft says, irritation evident in his voice. I let go a sigh of relief, because irritation means that I won and that he is giving up. _For now_. 

A sigh of relief at his retreat, yes, but no triumph. Greg is one of the last truly good men in this cursed world, and he is sixteen days gone. 

I’d say a prayer, but I traded my faith in a higher power for the more mundane trust in antibiotics, dumb luck and my own resilience a long time ago. On the battlefield, with my hands buried in the belly of a nineteen year old from Trent, such had seemed endlessly more useful. 

Sherlock would tell me there’s no such thing as luck, but he’s always been a bit of an idiot. The most brilliant man I’ve ever known, sure, but an idiot all the same.

 

\---

 

“It happened so quickly,” we all say, but I suppose it didn’t, not really. It was always there; the signs, the cracks, the slow build of the avalanche. We just didn’t notice until it was far too late, and we were all buried in the freezing snow. I blame myself for it, sometimes, but I blame others more. Mycroft, of all people, ought to have seen, ought to have – 

No. What’s the point? The past is the past, slipped beyond our meddling. We have better look to the future, which – as unpredictable and uncertain as it can be – may still be affected. 

So we struggle on, we few, we happy few – 

– we band of buggered.

 

\---

 

“Call me crazy,” – the flash of smile and too many teeth – “but I don’t think this storm is _natural_.” 

I haven’t heard him come up the stairs. Nothing unusual in that; the sound of his unnaturally soft footsteps is hard to hear even when there’s no rain to mask it. 

Stepping into the room, dripping wet and with a miraculously timed crack of thunder to announce his arrival, he looks elated, like a child taken to the carnival or a pyromaniac staring entranced at the flames. 

I am not surprised. Storms, fires, war, chaos and destruction – they all seem like his element, don’t they? Sometimes I wonder if he was surprised, or disappointed, when he didn’t find himself with the aptitude of a fire-sworn. I suppose his actual talent is more useful in the long run and not really at odds with his character – considering his fondness for _stories_ – but it just doesn’t seem quite explosive enough. 

I remember the first time we met. Well, not the _very_ first time, but the first time he showed his real face; showed up without a mask _(he is never without a mask)_. Years and years ago, back by the swimming pool, glittering lights on the water, glittering lights in the madman’s eyes. I remember the smell of his aftershave and hair products mixing with that of almonds and chlorine as I wrapped my arms around his neck. Desperate hero, perfect martyr, so very willing to give up my life if it meant that Sherlock got away, if it meant that Sherlock was safe from this malicious maniac. 

Jim Moriarty wipes the water out of his eyes and turns his dark eyes on me. “Toss me the lighter, would you, Johnny boy? Sherlock and I are going back out. We’ll see what this storm is all about.” 

I toss him the lighter, and he nods his thanks before he disappear out into the rain again. 

London was a very long time ago.

 

 

_**Coming up** : London, a very long time ago._


	2. The First Victim of War

_“I read it in the newspaper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales. And some pretty grim ones too… “_

\--- 

“Missing soldier? Really? I’m not complaining, but it doesn’t seem… I don’t know… interesting enough for you?” 

“It wouldn’t be, but it’s the third case in two weeks. You know what they say: two is a coincidence, three – “ 

“ – is a pattern. Yeah.” 

“The last time seemingly unconnected people started reporting their loved ones – or their remains, anyway – missing en masse we stumbled upon a government conspiracy. Maybe we’ll get lucky this time too.” 

\--- _  
_

The Telegraph, Monday 11 March 20- 

**Middle Income Group the Winners in New Budget**

_United Kingdom_. Staying true to the promises made during last year’s election, cuts in taxation for the middle income group go hand in hand with a marked decrease in funding for public institutions. “We believe that each family knows best how to spend their money,” Chancellor Miriam Byrnes said. “This budget returns power from the state to the citizens.” However, both the Ministry of Defense and the Science and Research Group receive a 50 million budget increase. 

\--- 

“Sherlock, it’s Molly. She’s been trying to call you, but you wouldn’t answer your phone.“ 

“I’ve been busy.” 

“You’ve been staring at a jar of flies for three hours straight.” 

“It’s an experiment. Tell her to text me if it’s important.” 

“Well, she _says_ it’s important. She says we need to get down to St Bart’s right now. There’s a body and – “ 

“A body in a morgue. What’s next? Milk in the fridge?” 

“In our fridge that’d be a bloody miracle… Listen, I’m going. Are you coming with?” 

“Oh, all right. Did she explain what’s so _important_?” 

“She didn’t want to say too much on the phone. I don’t know. Sherlock, she seemed pretty rattled. Apparently there’s something very odd about the cause of death.” 

\--- 

Daily Mail, Wednesday 27 June 20- 

**SUPERHUMANS GROWN IN SECRET LAB**

_Bedfordshire._ X-MEN CAN SOON BECOME REALITY. For over a decade scientists have been attempting to produce genetically enhanced humans in a top-secret lab in Luton. Ostensibly owned by multinational cereal producer Builders, the non-descript complex has been presented to both the public and the government as a grain elevator, but the _Daily Mail_ can now reveal the shocking truth. “It’s been going on for years,” an inside source explains. “At first it seemed like a mad fantasy, but just last year there was a major break-through.” 

The lab has recently been closed down, allegedly for ‘maintenance’. The CEO of Builders could not be reached for comment. 

\--- 

”That doesn’t make any sense.” 

Sherlock was, as always, unfazed. “No.” 

“So…?” The look Lestrade gave the detective was one of encouragment mixed with exasperation.

“It is the only explanation. When you have eliminated the impossible – “ 

“Yeah, but you _haven’t_ eliminated the impossible, because it isn’t possible for a human to breathe fire.”

“Greg’s right, Sherlock – “ John spoke up for the first time in half an hour, but didn’t turn from the window. The sky was an ominous gray and the smell of smoke still heavy in the air. 

“Oxymoron.” 

“What?” 

“’Greg’s right’. Oxymoron.” 

“Now, listen here – “ 

\--- 

The Guardian, Saturday 5 July 20- 

**Prime Minister Denies ‘Enhanced Human Programs’**

During yesterday’s parliamentary address the Prime Minister categorically denied the existence of “any type of programs – funded by the government or otherwise – dedicated to genetic enhancements of the human body.” He further condemned several publications, specifically naming Daily Mail and The Sun, for spreading fear and uncertainty through troubling rumours. “The United Kingdoms are facing many very real and very important challenges,” he noted. “Ignoring them in favour of made-up problems is neither helpful nor wise.” _  
_

\---

“What do you mean you don’t know what’s happening? You always know. You’re the one making it happen!” 

“I have told you before, John. I am but a minor – “ 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” 

A beat. Mycroft cleared his throat. “There were… whispers a few years back of a private think-tank of physicists, engineers – people like that. It was rumours, nothing more. A potential break-through in quantum mechanical theory, which might enable a… _realignment_ of reality. Thinning the border between what is _thought_ and what _is_.” 

“… What does that mean?” 

“We don’t know. The program – whatever it was – was abandoned.” 

John makes a noise, half-way between a snort and a chuckle. “Yeah, I don’t think it was.” 

\--- 

The Guardian, October 11:th 20- 

**London Burning  
**

_London_. Massive riots erupted yesterday in at least four of London’s boroughs. In Croydon masked protesters marched down the streets, breaking windows and street lights as they passed. Both Ealing and Harrow have seen several buildings put on fire, and in South Kensington over a dozen families abandoned their homes fleeing the mob. Tension has been rising in the capital ever since the Luton report was leaked to the media. It is speculated that the protesters were joined, and possibly lead, by several so-called ‘extras.’ […] By the time of printing the police have yet to subdue the rioters and have put in a request with the home secretary to use water cannons. 

\--- 

“Not mutants.” 

“Sorry, what?” 

“They’re not mutants. Well, technically speaking we’re _all_ mutants, of course, but these new _abilities_ are not the result of some genetic change.” 

“It… isn’t? Well, then what _is_ it?” 

Mycroft stood, and for a fleeting moment he looked _lost_ , which rattled John more than the riots or fires ever could. “It isn’t us humans that have changed,” the tall man said, turning his head to the sky. “It is the world.” 

\--- 

The Independent, Tuesday 31 October 20- 

**Martial Law Declared**

_United Kingdom_. In a response to the escalating violence and vandalism of the past few weeks, martial law was declared at 4 pm yesterday. Additionally, and in an unprecedented move, the government has contracted a private operator to aid with its enforcement. “The situation has deteriorated to a point where the police can no longer handle it,” said a spokesperson for the Prime Minister. “By bringing the army in, we hope to contain the riots. However, as many of the inciters display abilities that no one in the military is trained to handle, we are consulting with Sageous Inc. Primarily, they will provide instruction for key personnel, but until we have put together a special extra-human suppression force they will also be aiding the army more directly.” 

The decision received immediate criticism both locally and internationally. 

\--- 

_London, January 13th 20-_

The personal diary of Dr. John Watson 

I can’t post on the blog anymore. Too dangerous. But I’ve gotten used writing up all the strange things that happen to Sherlock and myself, so I suppose I’ll keep doing that. It feels like the proper thing to do, keeping an account. Maybe someday it’ll be safe to publish it. 

Perhaps we will never know what the full truth of what really happened. But the reality of the situation we now find ourselves in is undeniable, and so we must struggle to find an answer and with it, hopefully, a way forward. 

We’re leaving London tonight. I’m not sure where we are going; Mycroft has had something arranged. I tried to convince Mrs. Hudson to come with us, but she’s refused. Greg and Molly are staying as well. I – 

\--- 

The door slammed open and John looked up from the computer screen, hand automatically reaching for the gun he’d taken to wearing at all times. He relaxed somewhat when he recognized the newcomer. “Greg! What’s the matter?” 

The DI breathing was too quick and his eyes were too wide. “It’s Sherlock, John. They’ve taken him.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> While I don't wish to give too much away at this early stage, I feel I ought to point out that the particular kind of magic I will be working with in this story is more or less straight-up lifted from Mark Lawrence's The Broken Empire trilogy (it's brilliant; go read it). Maybe I'll mix it up with some ideas from C. S. Friedman's Coldfire trilogy (it's brillaint; go read that one too). 
> 
> "We few, we happy few, we band of buggered," is borrowed from Spike's paraphrasing of the St. Crispin's Day Speech, heard in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer season five finale (The Gift).
> 
> Ideally, I will update once a week. However, chapter two may be somewhat delay due to me being busy throwing a grand birthday party. :) Please be patient.
> 
> Your thoughts, opinions and questions are always very welcome.


End file.
